attempts of deception
by cedricsowner
Summary: Ilsa and Chance in a cabin in the woods. Set shortly after Ilsa started working with the team. One-shot. Co-written with niagaraweasel.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Outside a fierce storm was raging, but the soft golden glow of a blazing fireplace kept the inside of the cabin comfortably warm. With the help of a large bear rug and a thick red down quilt she had found in the back of a wardrobe, Ilsa had done her best to build a bed on the floor that wouldn't put any strain on Chance's back or shoulders.

She tried not to dwell too much on the question of how a harmless meeting regarding travelling expenses had somehow landed her in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with a half-naked business partner of hers. There were definitely more urgent problems at hand.

The shadows of the flickering flames danced on Chance's face and his closed eye-lids. She soaked a piece of cloth in the bowl of water she had brought from the kitchen and proceeded to dab his forehead with it.

"GAAH! ILSA! You wanna drown me?", Chance spluttered as icy-cold water ran down his face. "Ever heard of _wringing out_ the cloth before attempting to cool someone's face with it?" He wrinkled his nose and tried to shake off the drops that had trickled into his ears. "But of course, how are you supposed to know? I guess with Marshall you had servants for that kind of thing."

Ilsa more or less slapped his face with the still dripping piece of cloth. This was the first time she was this close to a barely dressed man ever since Marshall's death. And of course it had to be Christopher Chance, of all people! She was already thinking way too much about him… Understandably she was a little nervous, wasn't it? But ah, well, his obnoxious way of constantly treating her like a liability did a good job of quickly bringing her back to her usual self.

"Your acting abilities aren't that great either. For someone supposed to be badly wounded by a gunshot, shouldn't you be a little more ailing?"

Chance winced. His brows creased, as if he was trying his best not to show that he was in pain, and a shiver seemed to go through his whole body.

Ilsa immediately grabbed the towel she kept right next to her and hectically started to dry his face. "Is it your back? I didn't want to hurt your muscles with the cold water, I swear..."

"Ilsa…." Sounding like he was just about to die, Chance grabbed her wrist. But when he looked up at her, his eyes were twinkling. Then he smiled. "Gotcha!"

She probably would have slapped him with the wet cloth again, but just then the door burst open and in came the thug that had stalked their latest client for month. Ilsa threw herself flat to the ground. Chance grabbed the gun underneath the blanket and pulled the trigger.

Wounded enough not to cause any further harm, the thug sank to the ground.

Chance got up and checked on Ilsa who was still lying flat on the floor, eyes screwed shut. "It's okay Ilsa, everything's under control."

He could see she was breathing heavily, all muscles tense. Poor girl. She shouldn't be out here in the field.

"Now don't you worry, tomorrow you'll be back in London in one of your nice conference rooms, holding one of those meetings you so enjoy. No more armed thugs."

Oh how she hated this paternal tone of his! On the other hand – she was a reasonable woman. Sticking around just to prove a point would have been childish. He was right. She was a lot better suited for the bureaucratic side of this.

Chance rolled out of his makeshift bed and walked over to the bleeding man on the floor, making sure he wasn't posing a threat anymore. The thug was groaning, Chance bent over to take a look at the wound – and groaned, too.

Ilsa immediately knew something was wrong, he had already played a prank on her, he wouldn't do it again, not in this situation.

"I knew you had back trouble!"

Chance was frozen in an awkward position halfway above the thug. The spasms running down his spine made it very clear to him that he shouldn't have taken his shirt off, but the show they had had to put on for the stalker had been so much more believable without the shirt. They had needed him to believe he was helpless…

Well, apparently that part had worked out a little too well.

"Put on a shirt, for heaven's sake! You need warmth!" Ilsa was by his side now and suddenly all her shakiness was gone.

"Tell me how to tie him up. Do we need to do something about his injury?"

Two minutes later the thug was bundled up, a bandage keeping him from bleeding to death.

"Why aren't you in your shirt yet?", Ilsa asked indignantly, turning her attention back to Chance.

He looked at the floor, took a deep breath, was on the verge of saying something… she understood.

As she cautiously helped him into his shirt, her cell phone suddenly rang, much to her surprise. Thanks to the storm she hadn't been able to get a signal for hours.

Connie's number. "Can we expect you back for the weekly finance report meeting tomorrow evening?"

Ilsa finished pulling the shirt over Chance's head before answering. "I'm sorry, Connie. Important business is keeping me here. I fear you'll have to hold the meeting without me."

The thug on the floor groaned.

"But do you think you could sent me an ambulance if I give you the coordinates? Or maybe better the mountain rescue…"

Ilsa made sure to pretend the signal was getting distorted again right after telling Connie the position.


End file.
